Blood, Tears and Tapwater
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Ghosts were tragic, hopeless, mostly dead he could sympathize with them perfectly. DracoMyrtle friendship. HBP spoilers.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

_Blood, Tears and Tapwater_

Ghosts were tragic, hopeless, mostly dead. Perhaps that was why he could sympathize with them perfectly. And over the past months, Draco Malfoy had come to appreciate them in another light as well: ghosts were beautiful. Translucent, delicate-looking, but with a kind of strength; they had been hurt so badly already that despite their fragility, they could not be broken any further. Not bodily, at least, and as every Malfoy knew, staying alive took top priority over staying whole or staying sane. Ghosts knew that, too, of course, so desperate as they were to cling to the world of the living.

And lately ghosts had been using that strength, that will, to consume him. Every waking moment dedicated to them: to the ghost of his father, a memory of the man wasting away in prison; the ghost of his mother, an echo of the woman who had once been beautiful; the ghost of his master, half-dead, in limbo, and still commanding him, still overpowering… to take a life… to birth another ghost…. And even more consuming were the ghosts of his own miserable existence.

It was beautiful, in the way that only tragedy can be. Beautiful like a young boy forced into a job he wasn't ready for, Draco thought bitterly. Beautiful like a girl so tortured that she had no choice but to stay where she had died for all eternity…

Myrtle. Myrtle, Myrtle- Moaning Myrtle, they called her. Not a beautiful name, nor a beautiful girl, but a beautiful tragedy. And it was another quality of ghosts: most of them were trustworthy. They had little to fear from anyone, and so if you could earn their friendship then your secrets could never be ransomed out of them.

He had heard of her before, of course, but had never met her until this year. In fact, long ago, it had seemed so pathetic to haunt a bathroom that Draco had sworn to taunt her for hours if their paths ever did cross. And yet in October, as Halloween drew nearer, they had met, and hurting her in any way was soon the last thing Draco would ever want to do.

She must have been attracted by the sound of breaking glass. Standing in the dungeon bathroom, staring at the mirror, he'd been so frightened by what he saw, hating his own reflection so deeply, that without much thought he'd hit the mirror, splintering the glass. Seven years bad luck. Add it to the pile.

She had come up behind him with the sound of lapping water as he stood, glaring at the fragmented image of his face, cradling a fist that was soaked in blood, tears and tapwater. And he had felt her stare at him for a full minute before asking his name, and why he was crying.

Affronted, he had left in a huff. But that night he couldn't put her out of his mind. Why should she care if he was miserable? If he feared yet longed for his own death? If he was so close to giving up he could taste the cowardice? Why should she give half a damn?

But the fact was that she did seem to care, and misery loves company, as they say. The next day he had taken advantage of a free period and snuck into the girls bathroom that she usually haunted. It had been empty, and silent, but for the sound of rushing water and someone crying.

"Come to snap at me again?" She'd demanded. "What a girl gets for showing a little concern these days… only trying to help, you know!"

And with a feeling that he might regret it, he'd whispered, "I know."

Through the autumn and the winter, he'd visited her often, sometimes as much as twice a day. She had always been more than sympathetic as they swapped stories, and he found himself sympathizing with her as well. He told her about his mission, that he was to kill another person or risk the life of himself and his family. Myrtle thought her story paled in comparison, but Draco didn't agree. Her life sounded tragic enough to him: a mother who was drunk, a father who didn't care, and no one to talk to at school…. And Draco realized that for the first time, he actually empathized with someone. He actually cared about someone else's feelings enough to be sad if they were sad and happy if they were happy, and want it to be the latter, only for their sakes.

Myrtle, it seemed, cared for him in return. And one day her gentle eyes had been too much and he'd broken down, sobbing, crumpled against a wall while Myrtle cooed in sympathy- the only sympathy, he thought, that he could ever bear to accept. Then there had been a shock, and a shiver ran down his back, as she had laid her hand tentatively on his shoulder. But despite the cold, he'd smiled weakly. It was the first comforting touch, the first bit of contact that he'd ever experienced with the sole purpose of friendship. Ironic that it should come from a ghost, he'd mused. And best of all, she'd sworn secrecy before he'd even asked. She just knew him that well.

As the Vanishing Cabinet began to take more and more of his time, he visited her less. He still snuck off whenever he could, though, sometimes to commiserate or sometimes just to chat. (Bathroom ghosts heard the best gossip after all, she'd announced proudly.)

Months had passed and spring was in disgusting bloom; the cheer of nature was too much to take for someone who knew how truly terrible the world was, flowering or not. He began to spend more time with her again, even skipping meals just to talk to her, until one day even that was taken away from him. He couldn't remember much, just a whirlwind of images or himself crying, Myrtle at his back, and that goddamn Potter entering the room. Then some hexes, a curse, and he lay dying on the floor in a pool of his own blood with Potter staring guiltily down at him and Myrtle crying overhead.

And even as Snape had arrived and healed his wounds and assured him that it was not a fatal injury after all, Draco looked back at Myrtle and couldn't help but wonder: would she, the tragic beauty, the ghost of the girls' bathroom, have been the only attendee at his funeral crying?


End file.
